


in the days it took to know you again

by bstarship



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Temporary Amnesia, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Tony Stark Is Not Helping, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, i put peter through hell once again, nobody is happy and nobody is okay, ur welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24194143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship
Summary: He’s frozen, watching as the night sky clears above his head. The falling embers look like stars. Tony decides that he no longer likes the stars. Once he glances back down, he catches sight of a firefighter emerging from a thick curtain of smoke. There’s a body in their arms. Dangling limbs. Lifeless.“No,” Tony hears himself say.He can’t hear anything else. He can’t hear the firefighters or the EMTs rushing to take the body, yelling words Tony should care to listen to. He can only see the torn suit, the broken lenses, and the large scrapes down the kid’s side. Half of Peter’s mask is gone. The once treasured anonymity no longer matters.They’re all seeing Peter. Not Spider-Man.Tony imagines that his voice is ripping from his throat.He speaks out to no one, “is he—Peter—is he—?” And no one answers.orOne day, Peter Parker falls into a coma. Tony doesn't recognize the person who wakes up.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 44
Kudos: 135





	1. when you were asleep

**Author's Note:**

> [here's my tumblr! let's chat!](https://itsybitsyspiderling.tumblr.com/)

I.

Tony has been having dreams. Dark and hazy nightmares where he can hardly see what’s directly in front of him. He’s stepping on clouds, wading through molasses, all the way through an endless tunnel of memories flashing in his peripherals. And everyone he loves is there, swallowed up by the shadows while they’re screaming out his name. They’re screaming for him, begging him to save them. But he can’t move. In the dreams, everyone he loves dies.

Peter is always there at the end of the tunnel where the light should be. He clutches his chest, a bloodied, wounded chest, and cries for Tony.

“Why weren’t you there?” he asks him. “Why didn’t you save me? I needed you, and you didn’t save me.”

And Tony tries to respond every time. He tries to open his mouth and form an apology, but nothing ever comes out, and Peter disappears into the haze that consumes. Tony is stuck reliving his fears. He visualizes death every night; it’s there, prevalent and angry like it’s counting down the minutes until it dismantles his life piece-by-piece. It’s repetitive. He’s been here before.

But now, Tony isn’t dreaming anymore. He breathes in deep, inhaling smoke until the only things filtering through his lungs are toxins. His esophagus burns with each dry swallow until he chokes on the pain. He’s surrounded by billowing smoke and _darkness_. It feels like a dream, but it’s not.

Embers fly around him, dancing where a fire had once been. They mock him. They tell him, “you’re too late—the damage is already done” but Tony refuses to listen. He refuses to believe it. 

He isn’t aware of anything else but the black smoke enveloping. His eyes are deceiving him, and his brain has him locked in place.

_Is Peter here?_

Tony can’t get enough air in his lungs to scream. He wants to scream. He wants to call for Peter. He wants to see him stumble over and give Tony a crooked smile. There’s nothing but dust and falling embers where a building had stood.

_Where’s Peter?_

Figures run through the smoke, heavily-dressed and barely sparing a glance at Tony who couldn’t move if he tried. He watches them disappear behind the black sheen of rising gas and vapors, and all Tony can do is wait. He can’t see anything. He can’t do anything. He can’t move.

_Peter is here._

Tony coughs. His eyes sting from the hot air.

_Where is Peter?_

The noise of it all overwhelms. Shouts from strangers pierce through the harsh sounds of creaking and cracking wood. The building had already fallen, but the noises—they’re too much. Tony can hear his own voice speak one name over and over, the name of the boy the firefighters have been spending the past few minutes looking for.

Tony realizes that his body has fallen numb. His limbs no longer exist. And he’s not even trying—why isn’t he trying? It’s Peter. _It’s Peter_. It’s his kid. Peter is out there, and Tony should be trying, but he’s frozen under the heat.

He can still hear FRIDAY’s voice in his head. It had been a quiet night in his new place, a penthouse in the Upper East Side where he thought he fit in. For the time being, he was alone. Nothing else but sparks of ideas and homemade apple cobbler filled the night. A recently integrated FRIDAY echoed around the kitchen with panicked words.

_“Boss, there’s been a fire at an industrial warehouse in Brooklyn. Mister Parker is there, and the building has collapsed.”_

The first thought in Tony’s head: how the hell would Spider-Man be helpful during a fire? But it didn’t matter.

Tony hesitated, jaw clenching and eyes bulging out of their sockets as he registered everything FRIDAY had said. His hands shook violently above the kitchen counter, and then he was off, racing up to the roof where he kept a suit locked away. The sound barrier broke on his way into Brooklyn.

By the time he was on the scene, most of the fire had already been put out, but there was no Peter.

 _“You should remain in the suit, boss,”_ said the AI. _“There are dangerous levels of carbon monoxide in the air, and without—”_

Tony stepped out of the suit before she could finish. He ran up to police officers, to firefighters, to EMTs—to anyone who was in the vicinity who could help find Peter. He begged them, “please, Spider-Man is here. Spider-Man is in there.” And then he couldn’t move.

He’s still frozen, watching as the night sky clears above his head. The falling embers look like stars. Tony decides that he no longer likes the stars. Once he glances back down, he catches sight of a firefighter emerging from a thick curtain of smoke. There’s a body in their arms. Dangling limbs. Lifeless.

“No,” Tony hears himself say.

He can’t hear anything else. He can’t hear the firefighters or the EMTs rushing to take the body, yelling words Tony should care to listen to. He can only see the torn suit, the broken lenses, and the large scrapes down the kid’s side. Half of Peter’s mask is gone. The once treasured anonymity no longer matters.

They’re all seeing Peter. Not Spider-Man.

Tony imagines that his voice is ripping from his throat.

He speaks out to no one, “is he—Peter—is he—?” And no one answers.

They’re cradling Peter’s head, and Tony thinks that he should be the only one allowed to hold him. When he’s placed into the back of an ambulance, all Tony can do is watch. He can’t ask questions or demand to know what the hell happened to his kid. He can’t do anything.

And, of all people, then there’s Happy, running up to Tony with wide eyes and sweat on his brow. His suit jacket is draped over his arm.

“Tony? Tony,” Happy says, gripping Tony’s shoulders with strong hands to shake him out of his daze. “Hey, stay with me; okay? They’re headed to the hospital.”

Tony is able to move his head. His eyes water once he looks at his friend. “Is he—?”

“He’s okay.” Happy nods. “He’s breathing. He’s gonna be okay. But we have to go.”

“Hap, I—”

“I know.”

Tony has been in psychological shock for over an hour. He’s paced the hospital enough times to cover a hundred miles, and for some reason, Happy keeps bringing him more coffee. He doesn’t need coffee. He thinks he needs Peter.

He hadn’t been the one to call May, but he believes he should have been. Deep down, Tony has always cared about the impressions he makes on people, whether it’s insignificant or not. But he would never want Peter’s aunt to think any less of him. Happy made the call because Tony couldn’t seem to form the right words. When May arrived, she ran straight to Tony and hugged him.

But it’s been quiet. Too quiet. The last Tony had heard, they’ve been running tests and hooking the kid up to a ventilator to keep him breathing. Tony hasn’t cried yet—that he knows, and he doesn’t think anyone will say anything if he does, but he’s expecting it. It’s the uncertainty of it all that makes his blood pressure plummet. It’s the idea that Peter might not live that breaks Tony’s heart.

Tony thinks that if he had slept any less, he would have passed out on the ICU floor by now.

There are a million and one nurses that look at him as though he’s dying right before their eyes. He can’t tell if it’s because of his notability or if it’s because they’ve never seen him so broken before. Tony Stark doesn’t crack under pressure. Tony Stark doesn’t break, but he can’t promise it anymore.

He counts ticks on wall clocks. He finds a worn quarter beside a vending machine and flips it during his rounds. He washes his hands over and over again, lathering soap until his knuckles are rubbed red and raw. He refuses to look at his appearance in the mirror; he’s not sure if he’ll recognize the man staring right back. All the while, Tony can’t breathe.

He doesn’t know anything. No one has told him anything. He doesn’t know if Peter is even alive.

Happy finds him in a random hallway—he thinks it’s the maternity ward, and a comforting nursery rhyme over the loudspeakers validates his belief. Even when a new life has just entered the world, Tony can’t help but worry that another life has left. A life he has spent nearly two years trying to save.

The look on Happy’s face isn’t one Tony wants to see. And still, Tony can’t speak. He feels like he’s fighting for words, but they just won’t come out.

When Happy speaks instead, Tony can hardly hear a word. The man rambles about May, about the doctors, until he says something that Tony never expected to hear.

“Comatose?” he asks, voice coming out like a harsh whisper. “He’s—Peter—he’s in a coma?”

Happy’s eyes are soft, and he nods. “It’s a head injury. A Brain—a brain injury.”

Tony’s knees buckle, but Happy is there to catch him before he falls to the floor. Gray and black dots infiltrate Tony’s vision, and his heartbeat echoes loudly in his ears. Brain injury. Coma. He doesn’t want to accept that it’s true.

As Tony is lifted back up on his feet, he looks at his friend. His bottom lip trembles with each breath he takes. “Don’t lie. Don’t lie to me,” he says, gritting his teeth and pointing a finger at Happy’s chest. “Don’t lie. Don’t you dare lie.”

“Tony—Tony, I’m not,” Happy assures. His voice wavers. “I’m not lying to you.”

Tony lays his head on Happy’s shoulder and inhales sharply. It’s not true. It _can’t_ be true, he thinks, as a tear falls down his cheek.

Tony has been running through the numbers in his head. He hasn’t seen Peter—he hasn’t had the nerve to see Peter. He can’t fathom the idea of seeing the kid laying there lifeless yet alive. The thought sends Tony into a state of catatonia, and he feels as though he’s seconds from begging for a sedative to calm his nerves. Thinking about the possible outcomes only nestles them down deeper.

In his head, he repeats what Happy said in order to fully grasp it. Fractured skull, traumatic brain injury, moderate levels of carbon monoxide poisoning, and many other fractures, scratches, and lesions that hardly matter in comparison. But Tony refuses to believe it. He saw Peter being carried off from the smoke and flames, limp and broken, and he still refuses to believe it.

Tony has never seen Peter look so small before. He’s just a kid.

It’s no surprise that May hasn’t spoken to him in the few hours they’ve been at the hospital. She hasn’t come to find him, and he hasn’t gone to find her. He thinks he’s better off never speaking to anyone again. The more he wallows in silence, the more he craves to have some bit of company. He wants to talk to Peter more than anything. He wants to be mocked and talked back to. He wants that hint of humor that he’ll never be able to find here.

“What did they do with the suit?” Tony asks once he finds Happy again. It’s early in the morning, he supposes, but he hasn’t even considered leaving. And he’s glad to have a friend.

“May had it,” Happy answers. They’re sitting in an empty waiting room on a random floor, a cup of coffee in their hands while they sip slowly to pass the time. Happy is calm when he speaks. “She’s been by his bedside all night, only getting up to use the bathroom and such. I don’t—I don’t know what she’s thinkin’.”

Tony swallows the bitter liquid down, and it burns his throat. “She’s probably thinking about how badly I fucked up,” he mutters, leaning over his knees. If he closes his eyes, he’ll pass out. “Probably hoping it was me. Probably hoping I burn in Hell for recruiting a kid. _Her_ kid.”

“Maybe,” Happy says lightly. “You don’t have to be hard on yourself.”

“Easier said than done, Hap.” Tony takes another sip of the coffee. It’s stale, burnt, and horrible in every way, but the act of drinking something to keep his hands moving has helped. He’d be clawing at his skin if he had nothing to hold onto.

Happy sighs. “Yeah, I know.” For a few moments after that, he’s silent, and then he says, “but it’s true. You don’t have to be. What Peter does—his choices—they’re not up to you.”

Tony presses a hand over his eyes.

“You can’t keep him from running into burning buildings,” Happy continues. “How the hell were you supposed t’know that he’d be there tonight? And if you hadn’t gotten involved in the first place years ago, who’s to say the kid would even be—”

“Don’t fuckin’ finish that sentence,” Tony says under his breath. “Hap, if he—if he doesn’t—”

“You can’t think like that.”

Tony lifts his head and opens his mouth, but Happy cuts him off.

“I know, _I know_ ,” he says. “Easier said than done. Tony—I have seen you break your back for this kid. You’d fight every battle for him, big or small, if he asked. What he needs from you, right now, is for you to stay strong for him. He needs you to have hope. I mean, you love Peter, right? You said it yourself that you see him as family. If you have faith in your family, you need to have faith in Peter.”

 _“Love_ ,” Tony repeats, almost scoffing at the word, but he can’t find it in himself to deny or joke about something if it doesn’t matter. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” replies Happy. “It’s me.”

Tony manages a small smile; it’s the first of the night and most likely the last. And it quickly falls as he stares up at the magazine rack across from him. He remembers where he is. He remembers why he’s there.

“I wanna see him,” he says, voice quiet and weak as he looks over his shoulder. He’s a different person tonight. He’s not Tony. “I need to see him.”

Happy nods. He wears a sad frown, and Tony makes a mental note to never allow Happy to be sad ever again.

“Is May—is she still with him?”

“She’s home,” Happy answers, “grabbing some stuff before she comes back here. If you wanted to wait until she—”

“No.” Tony shakes his head. “I kinda wanna talk to Pete alone.”

 _Talk_. Peter can’t even talk. He can’t wake up.

Tony clenches his jaw and breathes out through his nose. Happy is right. All he can do is hope.

Tony stands in the doorway of Peter’s room in the ICU. In fact, he’s been standing there for ten minutes, watching through the glass as the monitors light up the dark room. He can see the outline of Peter’s body—small, fragile, and covered up by blankets and tubes. But most of all, Tony’s reflection is staring right back, and it’s debatable which sight scares him the most.

“Mister Stark?” someone says to his right.

He glances at the nurse’s reflection before looking over at her. “Hi.”

She smiles, and it’s warm and inviting, but he can’t retaliate. “I’m Vanessa, Mister Parker’s nurse tonight.”

If Tony had been smiling, it would have faltered. Instead, he nods, holding in his breath as he turns back to the room. He has to remind himself that Peter is in there, alive, with a heartbeat and working lungs.

“Would you like to know the good news?”

Tony’s head snaps back towards the nurse. He registers her question in his head before nodding again. “Yes.”

“There have been small moments of respondence,” she explains. “Little things. He’s only been here a few hours, so there’s no telling what could happen next.”

“What things?” he whispers.

“Well, there are many tests we run on coma patients, mostly pain stimuli and vocal stimuli tests, which he hasn’t responded to,” she says, using her hands as a counterpart. “But, so far, his pupils have responded to light, and when his eyelids are touched, there is reflexive blinking.”

Tony nods along. For the most part, he doesn’t understand the medical side of science, and he feels as though he’s incapable of absorbing new information. If she says it’s good news, then he’ll believe her.

“And he’s able to imitate breaths on his own—he’s on a ventilator as an aid,” she finishes with a kind, tired smile.

“Is there—is there a _but_ in there?” Tony asks. “There’s always a _but_.”

The smile turns sad. “There’s no identifiable outcome. Right now, we can only confirm that his reflexes are still active. Doctors and specialists are going to be coming in every day to check on him. But, as of now, they aren’t able to determine whether or not Mister Parker’s brain is capable of—what we call—wakefulness and awareness. Once he starts responding to additional stimuli, then we will have a greater understanding of his condition and if he will wake.”

 _If._ Tony doesn’t like the word ‘if’.

“Vanessa?” he says, and she smiles again. “Thank you.”

When he’s alone, Tony finally reaches for the door handle. He can’t move from there. And he feels pathetic. Pathetic for thinking that he’ll ever be able to catch a break. Pathetic for finding a way to be selfish when a kid he sees as a son could be on his deathbed. Tony wants to fall to his knees, but for once in his life, he doesn’t want to cause a scene.

So, instead, he opens the door and steps inside.

He’s never liked hospitals. He’s never liked the sterile scents and rigid atmosphere that comes with them. There’s always good news or bad news and nothing in between.

Peter’s room is large, and Tony thinks he might be partially responsible for ICU funding, but he can’t remember. He tries to look around at everything but the elephant in the room, yet the sounds—the beeping, humming, and buzzing—are too distracting. His eyes fall on Peter.

Tony has to force himself to breathe. He has to think about each step he takes to Peter’s bedside because otherwise, he thinks he would leave and never return. Because he believes he’s not mentally capable of handling it. Any of this. He doesn’t think his heart can take the pain that it’s threatening to feel. The denial he has been experiencing all night long suddenly disappears, and he sinks into a chair.

He’s nauseous. All of the tubes—they make him feel nauseous. He’s only glad that Peter can’t feel a thing.

Tony sets his head in his hands, exhales deeply, and says, “Hey, Pete.”

He’s never been so aware of his voice before, but he wishes he didn’t have to hear it. He wishes Peter was talking his ear off about _Star Wars_ fan theories. He wishes the kid was awake and smiling. But there’s a tube in his mouth. There’s a bandage around his head and a brace around his neck. There’s hardly anything there to remind Tony that this was once a happy kid who loved being Spider-Man and who loved his friends unconditionally.

“I’m not sure how this stuff works, y’know,” Tony whispers, sniffling once his eyes begin to sting. “Believe it or not, I’m not a genius in everything. I know, it really _is_ hard to believe.” He grabs Peter’s hand, avoiding the wrapping and the IV as if anything could harm someone who can’t even feel. “Your aunt—she’s scared out of her mind, kid. You’ll never guess what she did tonight.”

Tony can practically hear the response in his head.

_She slapped you, didn’t she?_

“No, no,” Tony mumbles, chuckling, “she _hugged_ me.”

_She hugged you? What’d you do, write her a check for a million dollars?_

But he loses the smile quickly. “She hugged me because she knows how much you mean to me, kiddo,” Tony says lowly. He adjusts his loose grip on Peter’s hand; he imagines the kid is holding it right back. Peter’s skin is warm, and Tony didn’t even realize that such a simple thing could mean the world to him. “Do you know how much you mean to me?”

_I think so. Mister Stark, are you okay? You’re getting weird and sappy._

“I’m fine, I’m—” Tony shakes his head. There’s not much he can say. He thinks his entire life has led up to this moment—a moment where he finally understands that he’s at his most vulnerable. Tony Stark, a billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, has allowed himself to not be okay. “Fine.”

_Sounds convincing._

Tony might be going insane. He thinks that he knows Peter too well. He knows what the kid would say and when, so he hears his voice speaking right back to him. Or the five coffees he’s consumed in the past few hours have finally caught up to him.

“Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?” Tony mutters, humming. His lips twist as he gazes up at Peter’s face. Bruises, scratches, and tubes. That’s all it is, that’s all he sees. He can’t even ruffle Peter’s hair. “No, I’m not fine, and I’m not gonna be fine. But you—” He inhales sharply. “You are going to be. You here me, kiddo?”

_I hear you._

Tony smiles. Hot tears roll down his cheeks as he leans in and presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead. “You are going to be just fine. I promise.”


	2. when you gave us hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, even for Peter, healing is never easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i’d love to chat with u on [tumblr!](https://itsybitsyspiderling.tumblr.com/)

II.

“Miss Potts.”

“Tony?”

She knows. He knows that she knows. He’s loved her long enough to have memorized every inflection and tonal change in her voice. She knows.

“I heard Santa Barbara is lovely this time of year,” he says, knocking his ankles against the legs of the chair. He’s been in the hospital cafeteria for two hours now. A half-eaten grilled cheese and an empty bowl of applesauce have been sitting in front of him for an hour and forty-five minutes.

“It’s fine,” she replies cooly, “humid.”

He hums. He can hear the hesitance in the silence—she doesn’t know how to bring it up.

“So, is everyone—”

“Was it Happy?”

“What?”

Tony clears his throat and glances at the muted television in the corner. Some local news channel is reporting on a car accident on the Queensboro Bridge. The warehouse fire occurred a week ago, but the news stopped talking about it after a day. No one has mentioned Spider-Man. “Who told you? Was it Happy?”

Pepper doesn’t respond right away, and he _knows_ that she knows. “You never did, and he likes to keep me up-to-date.”

“Yeah.”

He can hear her sigh through the phone. “I’m not upset about it,” she says. “I’m sorry. I can only imagine how this week has been. Peter, is he—are _you_ —”

“I’m fine,” Tony answers, and he thinks he’s telling the truth. While there have been no updates or improvements, he’s surprisingly fine. But, deep down, he knows a little giddy optimism is a cover-up for his denial. So, he’s not fine, but he’s done playing the vulnerable card. He breathes out through his nose. “Peter… I can’t say the same.”

Pepper’s voice is hushed as she asks, “how’d it happen?”

“A lot of carbon monoxide and heavy steel,” says Tony, and then he continues, in a more quiet voice, “and a lot of bravery. Stupid fuckin’ bravery.”

“He saved people.”

“Fifty.” Tony nods to himself. “Kid saved fifty people. Couldn’t save himself.”

Pepper is quiet for a moment. “I’ll be home in four days,” she says. “Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you’re blaming yourself,” she tells him, and _God_ , she sounds exactly like Happy. “He wouldn’t want you to.”

Tony knows that, but he also knows that he’s incredibly self-destructive, and his favorite kind of party is a pity party. Right now is the wrong time for it. “I know,” he mumbles. “Four days, you said?”

“Four days.”

He smiles softly. “Love you, honey.”

“I love you, too.”

It’s not easy for him to keep the smile as he sets his phone down in his lap. He’s the only one left in the rinky-dink, sad-excuse-for-a cafeteria, except for the older man working the register who has either fallen asleep or died. He hopes that’s not the case.

Tony stands and stretches his spine, allowing a few cracks and pops due to being bent over his knees for so long. He’s experienced his fair share of subpar food, but, in all honesty, he’s had worse grilled cheeses. He dumps the contents of the tray and leaves.

For a week, he’s been silencing the thoughts in his brain. He sleeps in thick vinyl chairs and in the back of his Audi when he can, only going home once or twice for belongings and a real shower. It keeps May from taking up a permanent residence in Peter’s room, but Tony can’t say he hasn’t done the exact same. He doesn’t let himself think too much because he knows that if he does, he’ll spiral again. The entire ICU nursing staff will see him the way he was a week ago.

He’s not afraid of showing his emotions—he’s afraid of becoming too consumed by them.

He also chooses not to think too much because if he does, he’ll think about the outcomes. He thinks of the two possibilities—Peter lives or he dies—and Tony feels sick at the idea. He’ll think about what could happen if Peter does live, if there could mental or physical effects. And he’ll think about what could happen if Peter dies.

But Tony doesn’t know what would happen. He doesn’t know what he would do, and he prevents the thought from ever occurring. He blocks it out and remembers that Happy is making a Starbucks run, and his mood is lifted for a sliver of a minute.

Tony walks down the hall with his hands stuffed into his pockets. When he arrives back in the ICU, May is pacing in Peter’s room, fingernails between her teeth before she rushes over to Tony. She looks to be relieved, so for a moment, he feels relief, too.

“He feels pain,” she blurts out, grabbing his arms tightly. “I was gonna call you—I was, but the doctors were saying so much. He feels pain, Tony. They pinched him and his eyes—they fluttered, and he—he _winced_.”

“He winced,” Tony repeats. His eyes slowly widen. “He _winced_.”

“He winced!” May smiles, and he doesn’t think he’s seen her this happy in his time knowing her. She’s more optimistic than him in every way, but he has a feeling she knows how to cope in much healthier ways than he does.

Tony looks over at Peter, at the mess of tubes and wiring that still make him queasy. The kid’s skin lacks its normal colors. It’s sickly pale, but Tony knows, in due time, everything will be okay again. He has to tell himself that in order to believe it.

“Can I—?” he begins.

She seems to know what he’s talking about. So, she states, “I don’t see why not.”

He walks over and brushes Peter’s arm lightly with his hand.

 _He needs you to have hope_. _If you have faith in your family, you need to have faith in Peter_.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony says. “I’m just gonna pinch your arm, okay? Is that okay?”

In his head, Peter answers with “ _hell no”_. But the Peter below him doesn’t speak at all.

Tony pinches his upper arm, and Peter’s eyebrows furrow. The crinkles by his eyes appear for a split second in time.

“Shit,” Tony breathes, lips quirking briefly as he presses a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re doing great, Pete. You’re getting there. I promise, you’ll be with us soon.”

The day after that, Tony is there during their stimuli test. They ask Peter questions with no verbal or motor response. They speak louder with each question before giving his shoulder a firm squeeze, and Tony can’t see it, but he can hear the small gasps.

One of the doctors says, “patient has opened their eyes to painful stimulus. Check off 2E.”

“He opened his eyes?” asks May. She’s holding onto Tony’s arm, an anxious habit she acquired about a week ago. She lets go immediately. “Can you—can you show me? Can you do it again?”

The doctor nods. “We can try,” she answers, “but Mister Parker makes the choice.”

Tony huffs and follows May to the foot of the bed. He hopes Peter doesn’t wake up to this—the sight of six people crowding him in a foreign place, an array of tubes hanging out of his body to make him look like less of a human and more like an alien.

The doctor gives Peter’s shoulder another squeeze. One eye opens, only barely, and then it closes again.

Tony is close to passing out by that point.

Someone says, “Mister Parker is on the well on the path to obtaining wakefulness and awareness. We should expect a full emergence by the end of this week. We’ll send him in for a CT in a couple of hours to check the rate at which the inflammation is going down.”

“You think he’s getting better?” Tony asks.

“Yes,” they say. “The speed of it—it’s actually quite remarkable.”

All Tony can do is smile.

He awakes to a nurse coming in to check Peter’s vitals early in the morning. Tony, in all honesty, is surprised he has even been able to sleep. His nature of living, as of late, has been less than satisfactory. Wandering hospital floors to keep his legs exercised while drowning himself in bitter caffeine to keep alert has only made him exhausted. The light in the bathroom has done nothing for his skin.

Tony is still in a sleepy haze when the nurse says, “okay, Peter, I’m gonna take your temperature now,” and he almost laughs. But he knows that coma patients are unpredictable. It’s better to tell them things and get no response than to keep silent and treat them like they’re not even alive.

“Oh,” he hears the nurse whisper.

Tony rubs his eyes and sits up. “Oh? Temp okay?”

“Peter, can you open your mouth again for me?” the nurse asks, and Tony is quick on his feet. She holds a thermometer above Peter’s parted lips. “That’s perfect. Thank you, sweetheart.” When she sets the thermometer in his mouth, he closes his lips around it.

“He’s—” Tony breathes out. He’s unable to form words. “He’s—”

“It’s incredible,” she replies. The thermometer beeps a moment later. “All done, Peter. You can open now.”

And he does. Tony wants to scream. He wants to run all the way to Queens to celebrate this milestone with May, but there’s no way—not in hell—that he will be able to leave Peter’s side until that kid wakes up for good. Tony is certain of it.

“A specialist won’t be able to come in for another few hours,” the nurse says to him. “If there are any changes, let one of us know or write it down if you can. I will be back around six for another check-up. This is good news, Mister Stark.”

Tony nods at her, and his lips tremble as he tries to smile. “Thank you,” he says.

Once she leaves, he’s back at Peter’s side. Tony pulls the chair up to the bed, knees cramming up against the bottom as he holds Peter’s hand in his own. The room is dark and quiet, and the only sounds between them are Tony’s breaths and the abundance of machines keeping Peter alive. But maybe they don’t have to anymore.

“Pete, that was great,” Tony mutters, running his free hand through his hair. “Excellent performance, bud. Bravo. I’d give it ten stars. It just—ya really made my heart rate soar. Y’know, you shouldn’t do that to your old man. His ticker is still going, but it ain’t that strong. Next time you pull a surprise like that on me, you gotta at least warn a guy. Cos’ hey, I’ve been camping out for over a week for this. It’s the least you could do for me.”

The response is silence, just as he expected. He tightens his grip on Peter’s hand.

Through the dark, he can see both of Peter’s eyes open. And they aren’t closing.

“Pete?” Tony asks quietly. The air has escaped from his lungs, and he feels like he’s running on an emergency back-up generator. None of his emotions are working quite right. “Pete? Can you hear me? You—you don’t have to say anything. If you can blink, that’d be fuckin’ amazing. I-If you blink, I’ll promote you. How’s that sound?”

He gives Peter’s hand another firm squeeze, and just as he’s asked, Peter blinks. Except when he reopens his eyes, he’s staring at Tony.

“Kid.” Tony smiles. It’s a real, genuine smile, one so full of happiness and sadness all the while, but it’s honest and it’s there. He hasn’t been able to feel this much relief in over a week. “Hey, Pete. You’re doing great.”

Peter stares right back at him. _I’m holding you to that promotion thing. And don’t make me your personal assistant. I don’t want to pick up your dry-cleaning._

“I’ll find a good job for you,” Tony says, reaching a hand up to fix the bandage around Peter’s head. “It’ll blow your socks off. You’ll wanna drop out of school and work for me full-time. But don’t do that, okay? May’ll kill me. I can literally picture the headlines.”

Tony’s grin spreads a little wider. Peter’s eyes are wide, unblinking, but they’re still staring straight at him.

_She’ll kill me before she kills you._

Tony laughs. “She’ll kill both of us.”

Peter’s eyes begin to close slowly.

“Don’t fight it, Pete,” Tony says. “You did all that you could today.”

And just like that, everything is back to the way it was, and Tony can’t stop smiling.

The next time Tony is in the same room as Peter, the ventilator is gone.

Tony has been buzzing around the hospital, offering coffee to anyone who wants it, and he thinks that most of them are only trying to be nice. The entire hospital staff has been respectful, but they’ve also come to know his stressed behavior. They don’t speak a word when they see him pacing trenches outside of the elevator doors for no reason at all. He nods at them, so they smile and keep on their merry way.

He doesn’t think for one second that anything could go wrong. Because everything has been going so right.

A nurse—Tony notices to be an RN named Jacob—is silently taking Peter’s vitals. There’s nothing to talk about. No chit-chat over sports or the latest cooking shows that seem to be the only content Tony can fathom around here. And, for once in his life, he’s tired of talking anyway.

“Peter, I just need to take a few blood samples, and then I’ll be out of your hair,” Jacobs says, holding up a few color-coded vials. After no response, he fastens the first vial to a butterfly needle.

A soft hum fills the room.

Jacob glances at Tony. “Was that you?” he asks.

Tony’s eyebrows knot together as he sits up. “That wasn’t you?”

They both look at Peter.

“Peter, hey,” Tony says, kneeling down beside the bed. He sets a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Did ya feel that, bud? Can you hear me?”

“I’m almost done, Peter, I promise,” Jacob adds. “Just two more vials.” He closes off the first and begins to fill the second.

There’s humming again, and Tony has to hold himself back from shaking the goddamn kid awake. His heart stammers in his chest, and he doesn’t know how to keep from smiling so wide.

“One more,” says Jacob.

Peter opens his mouth and mumbles, “okay.”

All of the air in Tony’s body is sucked out by a gasp, and he chuckles in amazement. “Holy shit,” he whispers.

Jacob’s hands shake as he labels the vials on his tray. He’s smiling, too. For a brief moment, Tony wonders if he knows about Peter—if he knows about Spider-Man. Tony doesn’t know who found out that night, but he has to hope that it will never be a problem.

“I’m gonna see if I can grab his doctor,” Jacob says before speeding out.

Tony is in shock. He’s in complete awe. He wants to dial May. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs over the fact that Peter said the word _okay_. Like a fucking newborn baby. It’s a milestone Tony feared he’d never reach.

But he doesn’t call anyone, as selfish as it is. He drags his chair to Peter’s bedside, and he can’t stop smiling. It feels stupid—how much he’s smiling, but he’s only felt this relief so many times in his life.

“Pete, I hope you know that, when you wake up, you’re probably gonna wish you were still asleep,” Tony states. “Cos’ all of us here, me, May, Happy, and that lovely lady that brings me water sometimes, are gonna annoy the shit out of you. Everyone here has been rootin’ for ya. I just—I need you to wake up soon, kiddo, because I’m going insane. I’ve memorized this entire hospital like the back of my hand, and I think their coffee is giving me intense IBS.”

Peter’s nose crinkles.

“What?” Tony asks, nudging Peter’s arm. “Was that gross?”

Peter hums. “Mhm. Yeah.”

“Shit, kiddo,” Tony breathes out. “You’re really speaking.”

Another hum, even a small eyebrow lift.

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” he urges. “If you wake up now, I’ll give you a promotion _and_ raise.”

Peter exhales deeply, and then he smiles. But he doesn’t wake up.

May meets Tony at the front door. Her eyes are wide, hair slightly disheveled, and she’s looking at him like he just murdered her postman.

“He’s been talking?” she says to him, voice carrying through the lobby. But it’s New York—no one bats an eye. “He’s—he’s been talking and you didn’t even call me? You didn’t text? Carrier pigeon? Tony, what the hell?”

He grimaces. “Okay, firstly—wow, carrier pigeon? And besides, it only happened this afternoon. Believe it or not, I finally left this place to get some food that doesn’t taste like burnt rubber and, oddly enough, shellfish.”

She narrows her eyes.

”I’m sorry, I know,” he continues, sighing. “I should’ve called you. He’s only been saying _okay_ and _yeah_ like he’s so drunk, he’s forgotten the entire English language.”

May glares at him for a long moment, and then her expression softens. “Did that happen to you?”

“Once,” he says. “In Italy. Woke up in Germany.”

She cracks a small smile, but then she hits Tony’s arm with the back of her hand. “You’re a terrible influence on my nephew. From now on, if anything happens, you immediately tell me. It’s not fair to me, Tony.”

“I feel like I’m being reprimanded by an ex-girlfriend,” Tony mutters, rubbing at his arm.

“I’m too good for you.”

He chuckles and says, “that’s exactly what they would say. And they were always right.”

May rolls her eyes. “Lead the way, asshole.”

They keep quiet on their way to the ICU, and Tony understands. He knows, no matter how hard he tries, he’ll selfishly put himself first. He’d never leave Peter’s side if he had the choice. But as much as Tony seems to forget, Peter isn’t family. May has known her nephew her entire life, and Tony has had less than two years with the kid.

He gets caught up in his own world. In it, there’s himself, Peter, and no one else. Tony will never be able to see past it. Normally, he doesn’t have to.

Tony steps into the room after May does. She’s frozen in place, and he doesn’t know why until he moves right beside her to see Peter sitting up in bed. Eyes open. Staring at them.

“Get someone,” May whispers to Tony.

So, he does.

He finds Peter’s nurse for the evening, and they contact the doctor. She arrives in under two minutes. Meanwhile, Tony’s heart beats erratically in his chest. The tremors in his fingers are unmatched, and a nurse invites him to sit down with a glass of water, which he politely refuses. He’s not panicking, at least he doesn’t think he is. He’s not sure what he’s feeling or if he’s feeling at all.

Back in Peter’s room, he hasn’t moved. May is at his side, and she doesn’t leave, even when she sends an excited smile Tony’s way. Peter sits there like a ghost. Nothing but a blank expression with horror in his eyes.

Tony isn’t fearing the worst; because how can he? His kid—his previously comatose kid—is sitting up in bed, awake and aware. There’s nothing to fear. How can there be anything to fear?

The doctor sits down beside Peter. “Hi, Peter,” she says, “I’m Doctor Hauser. I’m a neurologist. If you’d like to see the badge—” She holds up her a few tags. “—got it right here. How are you feeling?”

Peter stares at her, yet his expression never changes.

“Are you able to move anything?” she asks.

His gaze pans across the room until it finally lands on Tony. And Tony, who feels like his stomach is turning in on itself, folds his arms over his chest. Peter nods in response to the doctor.

“Great, that’s really great,” the doctor says. “How’s your head? Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?”

He looks back over at her, and after a long pause, he says, “four.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Wow. Four. Okay. And can you tell me your name?”

“I—” Peter’s brows furrow, and he pulls his lips into a frown. “Name?”

Tony finally understands why he’s so anxious all of a sudden. There is something to fear. He’s been too stubborn to acknowledge it.

“Yes,” says the doctor. “Do you know your name?”

Peter looks at May, and then he looks at Tony. There are unspoken words in Peter’s eyes. Like he’s begging for help. Like he’s fighting for an answer.

But he shakes his head ‘no’.


	3. when you hardly recognized yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is awake, but nothing is the same.

III.

_Peter is there. He’s there, clutching his chest, a bloodied, wounded chest, and he cries out for Tony._

_“Why weren’t you there?” he asks him. “Why didn’t you save me? I needed you, and you didn’t save me.”_

Tony doesn’t remember the dream when he wakes up. He’s too busy rubbing his eyes and trying to figure out what day it is, where he is, and how he got there. He realizes that he’s in his home near Central Park, a place he hasn’t gone since before Peter went to the hospital. Pepper’s side of the bed is neatly folded with her pillows fluffed and stacked beside his head.

The bed creaks as he sits up. He’s haunted by the quiet morning and the odd serenity he feels. Sunlight pours in through the arched windows, a wide array of yellows and oranges warming his skin and convincing him that life is nothing short of wonderful. Only for a brief moment in time. He sinks his feet into the slippers nearby and ambles toward the kitchen.

Pepper sits at the counter with her laptop and a hot coffee in her hands. When her eyes meet his, she turns and smiles.

“If I had known you were coming home this morning, I would’ve made pancakes,” he says as he clears his throat. “And bacon, and eggs, and—”

She tugs on his t-shirt and presses a kiss to his lips. “And?”

“What was I talking about?”

Pepper laughs, and it occurs to him how much he missed that laugh. He’s been spending the past few weeks trapped in his own brain with no one to fish him out, and now that she’s here, he only knows here and now and _her_.

“I guess I’m just surprised you’re home,” she remarks, offering him her coffee, and he takes it with a smile.

He sips it with an unpleasant _ahh_. “Why, am I supposed to be in Bermuda? Morocco? San Fran Bay? I forgot how seductive a Tempurpedic can be. How long was I out?”

He rounds the corner to the fridge, orange juice on the mind and nothing else while Pepper watches him. He doesn’t even question the light pep in his step or the lack of knots in his back. There’s air in his lungs and a smile on his face and the love of his life still loves him. He’s starting to think he woke up from a nightmare to a beautiful reality.

“Uh—well, I’ve been home for about two hours,” she says, “so, I don’t know. I had a late dinner with Rich and Sofia in Montecito last night and then got on a flight as soon as I could. Did you—have you checked in with—”

“Rich and Sofia?” Tony pulls out a carton of orange juice from the fridge and shuts the door with his hip. “They’re still together?”

“Somehow.”

“I haven’t been to Montecito since—”

“You’re avoiding something.”

He meets her eyes briefly and huffs out a laugh. He’s not thinking. He’s not thinking; he’s trying not to. “Avoiding what?”

Pepper’s lips fall in a flat line, eyebrows raising in confusion as she shuts her laptop slowly. “Have you talked to May today?”

“May? Why would I—?”

It dawns on Tony that he hasn’t just woken up from a nightmare. He’s not wrapped up his carefree, Star-Bellied Sneetch lifestyle with a wedding to plan and hero work to purposefully avoid. This is it. This is what he has right now. And at the sight of her, he had refused to accept it.

“Has she been calling?” he asks Pepper, voice falling hushed while his heart sinks in his chest. He’s not sure where his head has been, and he doesn’t want to feel grounded. He doesn’t want to wake up—but _God_ , he’s not dreaming. It’s real.

Pepper shakes her head. “No, but you have at least twenty texts from her and James.”

“I— _._ ” Tony sets down the orange juice and rushes over to where his phone sits on the counter. “ _Shit._ ”

The texts from Rhodey are minimal. _‘Are you around today?’_ and a little bit of _‘I haven’t heard from you in a while’._ Everything from May is about her night at the hospital.

_I tried talking to him about Spider-Man… Note to self: never talk to him about Spider-Man._

Tony furrows his brows.

_He can’t remember his suit. He can’t remember it. He wanted to talk about it, but he kept tripping over his words and stopping mid-sentence. He doesn’t know anything he’s trying to say. I have to be calm for him, but I don’t know how._

He re-reads it over in his head a handful of times, hard frown digging deep into his cheeks while he thinks about her words. And he tries his hardest to understand. He tries to understand how Peter can want to talk so badly about something he doesn’t remember, and it breaks Tony’s heart. The kid has only officially been awake for less than a day—there’s no wonder he’s disoriented, but Tony fears that it’s much more than that.

“I think,” Tony begins, setting his phone down as he pinches his nose, “that I—I should—”

“You should go back,” Pepper says.

There’s a small part of him that wants to disagree for the sake of disagreeing, but she’s right. May had practically begged him to go home last night for a few hours of rest, and he considered not returning. It’s not like he doesn’t want to be there for Peter—he _does_ , but he doesn’t know if he’s even wanted there. He doesn’t know if can be as calm as Peter needs him to be.

Tony nods. “I should go back.”

Pepper smiles sadly and rests a hand on his. “He needs you, Tony. I know you love him—”

“So, everyone’s saying that,” he says in his typical, light-hearted tone, “but I’ve never actually—”

“It just means that it’s obvious to everyone but yourself.”

His lips twist, and he nods again.

“You have no idea how much it will mean to him—to see you there, to have you support him as he recovers…” She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes it right back. “He’s gonna be climbing up walls in no time. You don’t have to tell him you love him—I mean, you should because it’s a nice thing to hear, but he’ll know it, too. From what you’ve told me, he’s lost so much. It’s going to mean the world to him to have you there every step of the way.”

Tony rubs at his eyes and sniffs. “I’m not gonna be like my dad,” he tells her. “I’ll never be like my dad.”

Pepper smiles. As she stands, she presses a kiss to his cheek. “You aren’t like your dad,” she says, pulling away. “But, at least now you admit it.”

“Admit what? That I’m not like my dad?”

“That you see Peter as a son.”

The thought sticks to Tony’s mind like it’s tacked on with Gorilla Glue. By the time he arrives at the hospital, it’s the early afternoon, and he walks in like he owns the place. The secretaries greet him with warm smiles while visitors and patients stare as though they’ve never seen another human before. It’s moments like these when he forgets about his name and figure—for once, he’s not in that mindset. Because none of this is about him.

It’s about Peter. From now on, it’s only going to be about Peter.

When Tony steps out onto the floor of the ICU, Rhodey is stood across from the elevator with his arms folded across his chest.

“I promise,” Tony says, holding up his hands, “I wasn’t ignoring your texts. I was gonna answer them at some point.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Rhodey replies. He smiles before pulling Tony in for a short hug. “Good to see you, man. How’ve you been?”

“You want the honest answer?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “It was kinda rhetorical. The answer is an easy guess.”

Tony glances at the entrance to the ICU and smiles at his friend. “I heard the cafeteria here has some finger-lickin’-good chicken tenders. What do you say we get lunch?”

“As long as you’re buying.”

The small talk down to the cafeteria is what Tony expects it to be. He hears about the weather in California and how Rhodey has been trying to get out in his suit more to enjoy it rather than to solely use it for military purposes. Tony can’t get a word in edge-wise—not that he doesn’t have the option, but he doesn’t sense a natural conversation forming from what he has to say. So, he waits.

After they’ve sat at a table with trays of somewhat-warm food, Rhodey says, “okay, this is killing me. You’re being abnormally non-hyperverbal, which means something is clearly up. I shouldn’t have to text Pepper and Happy to hear about out where to find you, Tony. It should not be impossible to track down my best friend.”

Tony nods. “You’re right. No, you’re absolutely right. I just—” He leans on the table and sets his head in his hands. “It feels so _bad_ , Rhodey.”

“What does?”

“When I was twenty-one,” he begins, completely avoiding the question altogether, “and my parents died, it didn’t feel like this. It should have felt like this; right? It’s like a goddamn knot in my chest, and it just feels _bad_. I loved my mother, but we were never that close. And my dad—well, you know. I was guilt-tripped into feeling any type of remorse for him because, even in death, the bastard still manipulated me and made me feel incompetent. I just didn’t grieve as I should’ve. It wasn’t normal, and now it’s like it’s all catching up to me.”

As Tony speaks, his voice grows louder. Rhodey watches him with a mix of sadness and confusion in his expression.

“I saw you fall from two-hundred-fuckin’ feet, and it felt like this,” Tony continues, sighing. “When Happy was in the hospital years ago, it felt like this. When Pepper fell to her _death_ , it felt like this. When Steve—when he—” Tony’s hands tremble as he sets them down. “And now Peter? I can’t keep up with this shit. I can’t keep watching the people I love—”

“This is about Peter?” Rhodey asks softly.

Tony nods and swallows thickly.

“And he’s in the ICU?” Rhodey stares at him in disbelief. “Tony, what the hell happened? Why aren’t you telling me things?”

Tony doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how to answer it. He’s been failing as a normal human being in society. And it’s all because he can’t get his head out of the clouds. He can’t think of anything else besides Peter and the present, and catching someone up with what’s been happening has been too much for him to handle.

He can’t look at his friend as he says, “Pete’s been in a coma. But now he’s not, and it’s just—things are complicated.”

“He’s been a coma?” Rhodey gapes at him. “Jesus Christ, Tones.”

“I know.”

There’s a beat of silence, so Tony fills it with a groan as he stuffs his face in his hands.

“Dude, c’mon,” Rhodey says, pulling Tony’s wrists back down to the table. “You’ve gotta cut yourself some slack, all right? Have you even been sleeping? Drinking enough water?”

Tony shakes his head, but it’s not in response to the question. “He almost died, Rhodey. I haven’t been able to get that thought out of my head. I’ve been there. Death. It’s—it literally _haunts_ me. I’ve been having these dreams lately. I’ve been seeing it—seeing him—and now I-I just need to be there. I need to know he’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” Rhodey states with an assuring tone. “And you are, too. You need to rest. Are you going to finish your pudding or can I have it?”

Tony slides the small bowl over to Rhodey, and he immediately takes a bite. “I have slept, by the way. I might look like I’m two seconds away from keeling over in the parking lot, but honestly, I feel fine. Okay, _no_ , that’s not true, but I went home last night. Slept in my own bed. Why are you here anyway? You don’t like hospitals.”

“Pepper told me you’ve been camping out,” Rhodey says. “I figured I’d stop by and see if I could get you to stop self-destructing for a while.”

“How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

Rhodey huffs. “Thought it’d be worth a shot.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Tony taps the table and glances up at the television behind Rhodey. On it is an infomercial about super absorbent hand towels. Peter has always had a knack for the As-Seen-On-TV crap that they upsell. “Have you ever met the kid?”

“What? Other than the time he rode off my ass in Germany?” asks Rhodey with a chuckle. “No.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “So you know he’s Spider-Man.”

“Yeah, well, I kinda put the pieces together,” Rhodey says, shrugging. “Plus, I’ve never seen you hang out with a kid. Ever. Not once. And then Spider-Punk came in, and Peter did, too. But, no, we haven’t officially met. We were kinda too busy that day for formal greetings anyway.”

Tony’s lips quirk into a small smile as he hums. The smile quickly falls. “I don’t think now would be a good time anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“They only declared him officially awake at least—” Tony lifts his wrist and glances at his watch. “—eighteen hours ago.”

Rhodey blinks. “Jesus.”

“I know.”

“What’s it like now?”

“What’s what like now?” asks Tony.

“How’s the kid handling it?”

Tony’s jaw clenches at the question. He doesn’t know how to answer it because he simply doesn’t know the answer. May’s texts hardly registered in his brain, but from what he can tell, Peter isn’t Peter. And he won’t be for quite some time. The thought makes Tony nauseous. So, all he can say is, “he’s not.”

Rhodey looks sorry, and Tony isn’t sure if it’s for him or Peter.

“Thanks for coming out here,” Tony says, tone shifting to something a little lighter so he can steer the conversation elsewhere. “You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.”

“I was already in New York for a conference,” his friend replies.

“Nerd conference or war conference?”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “ _Military_ conference, okay, and you were invited.”

“Kinda got my hands full here.”

“I see that,” he says, and then his eyes soften. The conversation is going to go right back where it was, and Tony dreads it. “Tony, I’m not just asking you, I’m begging you—be kind to yourself. Okay? I passed the kid’s aunt on the way in, and even she’s in better shape than you.”

Tony half-heartedly chuckles. “Yeah, well—it’s me. So.”

“Yeah.” Rhodey cracks a smile. “It’s you. And you’re a pain in my ass.” He checks the time on his watch and stands. “I gotta check in with a few guys before the conference. Thanks for lunch. Make sure to tell the kid that War Machine says hi.”

Tony stands a second later. “I won’t. He doesn’t think you’re cool.”

“And he thinks you are?”

“Definitely not.”

Rhodey laughs. “Thought so,” he mutters, starting toward the cafeteria doors. “I’ll see you later. Oh, and Tony?”

“Yes, sweetcheeks?”

“It was really good to see you,” he says. “Now, text me back.”

Tony doesn’t knock on Peter’s door before he enters. At first, he thinks the kid is asleep; his bandaged head faces the opposite wall, and his arm is splayed across his chest, but his eyes are open. He’s staring at a wall. Tony makes a mental note to bring Peter a coloring book or something to keep him from getting too bored around here. When Tony nears the bed, Peter doesn’t even look over.

He looks five years younger, Tony thinks. He looks like he has a serious case of Benjamin Button and has somehow aged in reverse since before the fire. Tony’s chest aches at the sight of Peter so quiet and lost, stuck in a hospital bed with a great big band-aid on the back of his head.

“Hey, kid,” Tony says lowly in order to not scare him, but Peter doesn’t budge. Tony takes a seat near the bed. “Lunch come by yet?”

“No.” Peter’s voice is clear but empty.

“What’d you end up ordering?”

He finally turns his head to face Tony, and something in his expression changes. His eyes widen and glaze over. Tony notices that there’s a little more color in Peter’s cheeks, and the tubes are gone. He looks more like himself, but somehow, he’s still unrecognizable.

“What’d I order?” Peter whispers, stating the question right back as though he’s thinking it over.

Tony wants to take the question back. It’s a question—a simple question that deters Peter and throws him off balance. Because whatever is going on in his brain—recovery, relapse, or something else—there’s another thing missing. When Peter talks, his speech is impeded and slurred. He doesn’t know how to behave. And Tony is a novice about brains. He never went to school for that. He doesn’t know what’s wrong.

As he looks at Peter, he wonders if there’s any ounce of recognition at all. He wonders if Peter doesn’t realize their history. It’s like he knows him, but he doesn’t know why he knows him. Tony feels numb.

So, questions aren’t the best idea, he thinks. He doesn’t know if forcing Peter into knowing things is the way to go, and Tony feels incredibly guilty for the amount of turmoil he’s already caused.

“Y’know,” Tony begins, hopeful that he can ease the tension, “I’ve got a lot of stuff waiting for us back in the lab. A shit ton of crap for you to do once you’re all healed up. And we can pull all-nighters if that’s the way to go. It’s a whole laundry list of things—you’ll probably hate me for it. Suits. Gadgets. Patent-pending tech that not even the public knows about. It’s a first-come, first-serve. All for you.”

Peter stares at him, bug-eyed and broken, and there’s not a hint of recollection buried down deep. Nothing is processing. Nothing is working, and Tony can only imagine how badly Peter just wants to try.

“Okay,” the kid whispers after a few moments, and his voice breaks.

Tony’s heart aches. “Pete.”

At the sound of Tony saying his name, Peter’s nostrils flare, and he turns his face up toward the ceiling.

“Is there anything I can do to make this easier?” Tony asks. _You gotta keep calm for him. You gotta stay strong for the kid._ But Tony’s stomach is tying itself in knots the more he talks.

Peter’s lips curve and his eyebrows tug up as he shakes his head. A few stray tears roll down his cheeks, and Tony resists the urge to wipe them away. He doesn’t want to scare Peter.

“I don’t know,” Peter mumbles. “I don’t know.”

Tony can’t hold back the question brewing on his tongue. “Do you know me?”

But Peter can’t even look at him. It’s almost as if the question never registers, yet a second later, he says, in a weak voice, “I-I don’t know.”

There’s silence between them. The only sounds in the room are a few sniffs from Peter and the soft whirs of machinery to his right. Tony can’t react—he doesn’t know how to react. His brain has dried-out, and he’s void of emotion. It feels that way. He can’t console himself or the kid. He can’t do anything but feel _sorry_.

So, he tells him, “I’m sorry, Pete. I’m so sorry.”

Peter inhales sharply, sucking in his emotions and pushing them down until they’re far out of reach. His jaw is stiff and his eyes are glassy, but he keeps still. He refuses to look at Tony. “I don’t know,” he says again but stronger.

“But you know what, Pete?” Tony asks.

Peter glances over. There’s a hard line between his brows that won’t go away for a while.

Tony offers a smile. It’s not real, but it’s not for himself. It’s for Peter. “You will, okay? You will. You’ll know things. Even if it takes me annoying the hell outta you. And I will—don’t ever doubt that for a second. Rhodey was a little freaked out earlier because I haven’t been talking nearly as much, so you can bet I’m gonna change that. You’ll hate me.”

Peter’s lip quirks, and Tony takes a picture of the moment in his head. He doesn’t know if May had been able to get him to laugh or smile while he was away, but Tony relishes in it. It’s progress. It’s something. It’s those few seconds where Peter isn’t battling his own brain.

“Y’know, you can ask me questions, too,” Tony says. “I’m an open book, just for you. But, uh—only post-2008 though. I literally have no memory of anything that happened before that.”

Peter nods, and after a beat, he mutters, “I don’t like these blankets.”

“You don’t—okay.”

“Can you change them?”

Tony laughs, and it’s comfortable. He has missed it. He has missed Peter. “Yeah, Pete. I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! much love :-)
> 
> [come talk to me on tumblr!!](https://itsybitsyspiderling.tumblr.com/)


	4. when you took your first steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes progress is one step forward and two steps back.

IV.

Tony awakes at 3:24 in the morning.

The room is shadows of furniture, and the only source of light crawls in from under the blinds as nurses bustle around out in the hall. There’s a faint orange hue from the heart monitor that illuminates Peter’s figure lying still in bed. His vitals are normal, everything is normal, but Tony still senses that something is wrong.

He’s commonly woken up by the nurse who comes in every few hours, but it’s only him and Peter. Quiet. Cold. Wrong. There’s that odd lingering feeling that he’s not the only one awake.

Tony glances over at Peter. Through the dark, he can see a glint of light reflecting off of his wide and watery eyes. A vacancy resides in them, one that has been sitting in his eyes for days. Tony hates it. He hates how a look can distract from such kind eyes. He hates staring into them and seeing nothing of the Peter he once knew. They’re empty.

“Pete?” Tony tries to say, but his lips barely part, and the words are nothing but air.

Peter doesn’t react. His eyes don’t even blink, and for a moment, Tony is convinced the kid isn’t awake—he’s simply trapped in a state of somnambulism. And maybe he is, but then Peter’s lips start moving.

There’s nothing at first. No sounds, no breaths. Only Peter mouthing nonsense. The words form quietly.

“Hospital, city, New York…” he begins in soft whispers, “buildings, tower, flying, aliens, violence…”

Tony tries not to move, and he tries not to breathe.

Peter continues, “sports, baseball, Mets, fans, man, Iron Man—”

At the name, Tony’s spine stiffens. He should be relieved to hear it. He is.

“Metal, robot, voice, suit, Karen…” Peter’s voice could be drowned out by a pin dropping, but Tony hears it sharp and clear. “Liz, Delmar, sandwich, fire, bank, cat, damage, fire, weapons, aliens, bird…”

_Bird?_

Oh.

_Oh._

Tony gets it. Tony knows exactly what Peter is doing, whether he’s purposefully doing it or not. It’s a stream of consciousness. Peter is connecting the dots. Weapons. Aliens. _Bird._ Toomes.

“Green, eyes, talons, sharp, _sharp_ …” Peter’s breathing picks up as he speaks. “Fire, fire, plane, sand, fire, choking, I’m choking—”

Tony digs his nails into the chair’s vinyl, feeling the panic emit from Peter, but the poor kid doesn’t understand.

“Can’t—can’t see, sad, Happy, I’m happy,” Peter continues lowly, “suit, metal, Happy, hero, _hero_ , Tony—”

“Pete?”

Peter’s train of thought comes to an end. His eyes don’t close, but his mouth does, and he looks over at Tony with an unchanging expression. And it’s unapologetic, like he isn’t aware of what he’s done or if it had woken Tony up.

“Mister Stark,” Peter finally says.

Tony restrains from dwelling on Peter calling him by name. He doesn’t tear up or smile because he won’t allow himself to, but he wants to. He wants to rejoice and finally hearing his name from the kid’s lips in three weeks.

“You okay, Pete?” Tony asks, bringing out—as Rhodey calls it—the _dad_ voice. “Can I get you anything? Blanket? Water?”

It’s like the flick of a switch. Peter shakes his head, and his eyes change. There’s no emptiness, no vacancy that was left from the abundance of confusion and frustration—just Peter. Peter’s eyes are Peter.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Tony offers a sad smile. He’s not sure why the kid is apologizing in the first place, or maybe he is. Maybe he knows exactly why the kid is sorry, but he shouldn’t be. “Get some rest. You gotta save some energy if they want you up and walkin’ today.”

“Walking?” Peter questions. Now there’s fear in his eyes. It’s better than nothing at all. “Does that mean they’re gonna—they’re gonna take away the thing?”

“The thing?” Tony raises an eyebrow. “‘Fraid I have no clue what _the thing_ is.”

“The—the—” Peter points down toward his legs. “Tube.”

“Catheter?”

He nods, and Tony resists the urge to laugh.

“Yeah, they’ll get rid of it for you,” Tony assures. “You okay, though?”

Peter nods again. “I’m okay. Tired. Hungry.”

Tony smiles as an idea hits him. “Tell ya what, kiddo,” he says, shifting in his seat, “I’ll drop by your favorite bagel place in the morning and get you some food that doesn’t taste like cardboard soaked in mayonnaise. How’s that sound?”

“Mhm, good,” Peter whispers as his eyes close. “I like bagels.”

“As much as I love this incredibly intelligent conversation,” Tony says, “you look like you’re about to conk right out.”

Peter only nods lamely in response.

And Tony—his heart is so full. He’s getting his kid back. “See you in the morning, Spider-Dork.”

Tony’s hands are full.

In his left hand, he has a death grip on a paper bag of a dozen bagels. In the other, he holds a duffle stuffed to the brim with scrappy tech the kid can mess with if he so pleases. Little things like an old busted sonic fire extinguisher and a new web-shooter prototype that Tony has been messing with in his minimal spare time. Aside from coloring books and puzzles, he hopes the tinker toys will not only detract from ultimate boredom but give the kid a piece of his old self back. Hope is all Tony can do by this point.

As usual, he uses waves and smiles as a nonverbal good morning and proceeds down the hall. A part of him wonders if he should have bought flowers, but that isn’t who Peter is. He isn’t one for flowers. And that definitely isn’t who Tony is either.

He makes his way down through the ICU, past the nurse’s station and the shift board that is covered in bright pink marker, before a nurse stops him outside of Peter’s room.

“Hi, Mister Stark?” she says kindly. He recognizes her, but the memory is vague. Her name tag reads Vanessa.

Tony retaliates with a half-smile and a nod. “Hi, yeah. In the flesh.”

“I just wanted to let you in on what occurred a few hours ago,” she tells him, and gosh, he’s certain she has the energy of a thousand suns even without coffee. She’s probably never done a bad deed ever in her life.

He narrows his eyes for a moment. “All right… I’m all ears.”

“We had a PT consultant come in around 8, and I don’t know exactly how it happened, but Mister Parker had to be restrained,” she says, setting her hands into the pockets of her scrubs. She talks nonchalantly, but meanwhile, Tony is still caught up on _hello_. “He’s not anymore, so there’s that. My guess is that there might have been a few wrong words said. A little violence or a possible threat to attack. Post-traumatic amnesia sometimes has a tendency to cause agitation and anger when things might be too overwhelming or stimulating.”

“I see,” Tony mutters, but he doesn’t understand. His Peter isn’t angry. His Peter doesn’t attack. Not like that.

“We were going to have him try to walk today,” Vanessa continues, “and as far as I know—per the doctor’s request—she would still like that to happen. Mister Parker has been recovering incredibly well for the severity of his brain injury. We don’t want to throw him into things, but she believes that he will continue to recover at the same rate even if we speed up the process. I know it may not seem like it, but believe me, Mister Stark—Peter is doing remarkably. Any laceration he might have had on his head is now gone completely.”

Tony hums. “You’re kidding,” he says, trying his best to sound amazed by the news. Lacerations were nothing compared to the time Peter dragged himself into his workshop with a bullet wound only for it to heal less than two days later.

“Anyway,” Vanessa shrugs and smiles, “just wanted to let you know. I didn’t want you to be shocked if you find that he’s slightly on edge today. It’s normal. It’s okay. It’s all one big process, but he’s lucky to have you.”

“Well—” Tony sighs, but then he smiles, too. “Thank you. You’ve been a real help. I’ll make sure to be in touch with your superior. Hell—” He turns to glance at what he can see of the ICU floor and points around. “All of you are probably gonna end up with a raise and a special bonus check signed by the Big Man himself—me. That’s me. I’m the—anyway. You all deserve so much and more. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I appreciate it, Mister Stark,” she replies, “but you’ve already helped us a ton as it is. New equipment, refurbishments—we’re the ones who should say thank you.”

He sets a hand on the doorknob to Peter’s room, exhaling briefly before looking at her from over his shoulder. “Vanessa?” he says. “You are, by far, my favorite nurse here. I’m glad to know that Peter’s been in good hands.”

“He talks about you.”

Tony frowns. He doesn’t know why he frowns, but he can’t help it. “He does?”

She nods. “Until the cows come home.”

Tony’s fingers slip from the handle. “About what?”

“Oh, everything,” she states proudly. “He thinks it’s weird to have a billionaire sitting by his bedside every day, talking about what’s going on in the news, etcetera. But he thinks you’re cool. He likes having you around. You help him.”

“Does he know why I’m here?” Tony asks, furrowing his brows.

“I’m not sure,” Vanessa answers. “I’m not sure _I_ know why you’re here.”

He glances down at the bagels and the bag of tech junk that has been grinding into his skin. _Oh, the kid? He’s special, you know. He’s Spider-Man. He’s my intern. He’s—_ “He’s family.” Tony sniffs and plays the response off cooly. “Yeah, family. Fiancée’s nephew. Great kid. He’s—yeah.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna be his uncle.”

_Good going, Tony. There’s no turning back now._

“Sure am,” he replies, grinning. “Thanks again. Really. You’re great.”

“Anytime, Mister Stark.”

“It’s just Tony.”

When Tony walks into Peter’s room, he manages to forget every single thing that Vanessa had said to him. All he _wants_ to think about is the look on Peter’s face when he sees what he brought for him to tinker with. Plus, the smell of everything bagels should be enough to win anyone over in a second.

But Peter isn’t lying in his bed once Tony walks in. Instead, he’s on the edge, legs draped over the side as he sits with his back toward the door. The only things connected to him by this point are the IV catheter and heart monitor.

“Hey, kid, I brought you—”

“I heard you,” Peter mutters without turning around.

“Heard me?” Tony sets the bags down onto a nearby chair. “Heard me when? What’d I say?”

Peter finally glances over his shoulder. “Outside,” he says, twisting his body around and bringing a leg up onto the bed. “I heard you and that nurse. You were talking about me.”

 _How did he manage to—_ Oh. Right. Somehow, in three weeks of radio silence from Peter’s beloved powers, Tony had managed to forget the sprout even had them.

“Yes, well, for the record, I did forget that you have super-hearing,” Tony says. He reaches into the brown paper bag and pulls out a bagel. “Catch.”

And Peter does. Which means one thing—Vanessa was right. Peter is not only recovering, but he’s becoming himself again.

Peter stares at the bagel in his hands. “I didn’t like it…” he says quietly, picking off some poppy seeds. “—you talking about me. I’m not—I’m not broken.”

Tony mulls over the phrasing and nods. “Yeah, no, you’re right. You’re right, Pete, I’m sorry. You’re not broken.” _Just slightly bruised._

“I have—” Peter’s brows knit together once he looks back up at Tony. “I have super hearing? What does that mean?”

“Super-hearing, super—” Tony takes a seat on the opposite side of the bed. “—everything. Okay if I sit here? I’m already here, so it’d be kinda rude if you—”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbles and shrugs. “Whatever.”

Tony’s face falls. _Whatever_. His first instinct is to strike back with some witty quip that no one ever finds appropriate or timely, but in this case, he senses the discomfort in the situation. There’s the edge. There’s the agitation that Vanessa had mentioned so gracefully. Thinking back to what happened with the PT consultant, Tony doesn’t want to make it worse. But he doesn’t want to live in fear of Peter either.

He hates—he absolutely _hates_ —that it has come to this.

Peter takes a small bite out of the bagel.

“I bought cream cheese, kiddo. Would you want—”

“No,” he says sharply, and then, in a calmer tone, adds, “this is fine.”

Tony isn’t sure how to initiate conversation after that. He doesn’t know how to bring up the PT mishap or the trial walk that the kid is about to take part in—Tony doesn’t know how to tip-toe around someone who has only shown an interest in talking his ear off for hours on end. Every time Tony believes that things have gotten better, that this is _his_ Peter, things seem to feel worse.

“Where’s May?” Peter asks after a few long moments of silence.

“Uh—well, she’s at work—”

“Why’d you say you were engaged to her?”

For a second, Tony has no clue what the kid is even talking about. But then he remembers the nurse and Peter’s incredible hearing, and he understands. “Oh. Yeah. Um—I was just messing around I guess. I’m actually engaged to—”

“You’re not gonna be my uncle,” Peter states, voice flat as he tears off pieces of the bagel and eats them.

Tony, in a way, wishes that he had sounded disappointed.

He shakes his head. “I’m not. No.”

A nurse interrupts their conversation, and he’s glad. As much as he loves talking to Peter, he can’t keep up with where the kid’s brain has gone off to. Tony has whiplash from it. There are good signs and bad signs, all tangling up and interweaving with one another, and he can’t pause to take a breath. It’s good news that Peter is creating coherent thoughts in the first place, but his stream of consciousness is like a rollercoaster that makes Tony sick.

“Well, Mister Parker, are you up for some walking today?” the nurse asks, and similar to Vanessa, he has too much energy for it being before lunchtime. “We’ve got a walker for you—” He sets his hand down on the walker with a smile. “—just to give you a little more balance. Did PT have you stand yet?”

Peter looks at Tony and nods, and Tony raises a brow.

“Okay, perfect,” says the nurse. “Then we’ll get you started. Do you need some help standing?”

Again, Peter doesn’t say anything. It’s awkward silence and stares, and he keeps his wide eyes locked on Tony. They’re screaming at him, begging for help, or maybe he’s projecting. Nevertheless, Tony stands, and Peter’s gaze is still on him.

“You did good. Stand down,” Tony whispers to the nurse and pats his shoulder. He sits right beside Peter on the bed, holding his breath in case he has made the wrong choice, but Peter doesn’t react. “It’s gonna go real fast, Pete, I promise. You’ll be back in this— _somewhat—_ comfy bed in no time at all. Just think about those dozen bagels that I bought all for you, and you’ll be running down the hall. But, in the meantime, I can help you up. Here—”

Tony stands and holds out both palms. “You grab my elbows, and I’ll grab yours,” he says, and Peter hesitantly does as he’s instructed. “Okay, put all of your strength into it, kid.”

As it turns out, when Peter does stand, it’s not all that graceful. He puts more strength into it than necessary and nearly topples over. While it worries the nurse, Tony is almost relieved. Actually, he _is_ relieved. The kid can bench more than Captain America—it’s a good sign he can stand up after a coma.

It takes a minute to lead Peter out into the hall. Tony holds open the door and watches the sixteen-year-old walk like he’s truly ninety-two in a teenage body, and it haunts him. Tony feels like his world is spinning. And he wants to look away. He wants to forget all of this ever happened, and he wants it to be six months into the future. The longer Tony focuses on Peter—the longer he thinks about the devastation and the heartbreak Peter has endured—the more he realizes how much Peter looks like he had when he was younger.

Peter breathes out through his nose. His knuckles are pure white with his grip strong on the walker. Both Tony and the nurse have an arm interlocked with his, yet Tony can feel the stress and panic radiating off of Peter, and knots form in his stomach. He imagines himself holding back an angry Bruce Banner who is seconds away from going green.

“So, Peter, where is it you go to school?” asks the nurse. “Are you in school?”

Tony tries to keep his heart from sinking prematurely. He’s praying that Peter can remember the slightest of information, but he knows better than to get his hopes up.

“I—yeah,” Peter breaths out. “I go to—to—it’s science. A science school.”

Tony can only imagine how misplaced the cogs are in Peter’s brain. But what he can’t imagine is how painful it must be to think you remember something, and then there’s just _nothing_. All the while, Tony is happy that Peter can remember anything at all.

“Midtown,” Tony mutters.

“Midtown,” Peter repeats, and, in a higher register, asks, “Tech?”

Tony nods, giving him a half-smile while Peter’s eyebrows furrow. He’s disappointed with himself, and Tony can’t blame him for feeling that way.

“Wow,” the nurse replies, chuckling. “Crazy school. My wife’s coworker has a son that goes there. “It’s not—it’s not too elite, is it?”

Peter thinks about the question for a moment. “I don’t know,” is all he can come up with.

The nurse carries on. “Well, other than school,” says the nurse, “anything else you do? You got a job?”

While Tony understands that this appears to be the nurse’s goal—to get answers—Tony has to hold back from gripping too hard on Peter’s shoulder. He’s anxious because he can tell that Peter is anxious, too.

“I think,” Peter says. “I think I do.”

A smile warms Tony’s cheeks. “Sure does,” he adds. “He’s my intern.”

“Oh?” The nurse blinks a few times. “You’re his intern?”

The look on Peter’s face almost appears to be disbelief, and Tony worries that there’s nothing there. Nothing as proof, nothing to tell him that this is a memory he should have.

And then Peter nods. “I’m his intern.”

The nurse’s jaw slackens, but it quickly shuts. “Holy—so, Midtown and a Stark Industries internship? Didn’t realize I was in the company of a genius.”

Tony frowns. _“Hey_. _”_

“ _Two_ geniuses,” the nurse fixes, laughing. “So, what do you do there, Peter?”

 _Crap_ , Tony thinks. He can’t expect Peter to remember this. He hardly expects Peter to feel comfortable in his presence at all. He can’t do anything but wait eagerly for a response.

Peter tugs his bottom lip in between his teeth. “Uh—something about web design?”

At the sound of the words, Tony has to breathe out heavily to keep from laughing. Whether it was cleverly phrased with intent or total confusion on Peter’s part, it was said for a reason. Peter is starting to remember—slowly, but it’s baby steps.

“You design their website?” asks the nurse, and he sounds intrigued as he speaks. If only he knew the honest truth. “That’s so cool.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Sure. That’s—that’s what I do.”

After that, the questions come in an abundance, and Tony fights the urge to publicly humiliate the poor nurse because of how much he’s hounding his kid. Meanwhile, Peter’s steps are harder. They’re shaky and small, and his breathing has changed. The grip on his walker has changed. Every answer Peter mutters comes with more and more urgency, like he’s tired of speaking and can’t keep his frustration from boiling over.

And then, after a question about Peter’s favorite dinner spot in Queens, water sizzles on the stovetop.

“I don’t _know_ ,” he says, voice echoing down the hall and causing an elongated silence from nurses and visitors. “I don’t know. I don’t know, and I don’t know why I don’t know. Just—why—why don’t I know? Why don’t I know? Tell me, please. Someone just tell me!”

The walker is sent down the hall in an instant, and Tony is there to catch Peter before he falls. Instead of holding Peter up to his feet, Tony sits him down against a wall, and he sits, too.

He hasn’t seen Peter cry like this in a long time. The last time it ever happened, he swore he never wanted to even envision it, let alone see it again and break his heart into pieces. There isn’t a single part of Tony that doesn’t care for the kid, and when his world shatters, so does Tony’s. He would give anything for Peter to be happy.

The nurse stands beside the IV rack without saying another word. The only sounds between them are the soft sobs rattling through Peter. He leans against Tony’s shoulder.

“W-why don’t I know anything?” he whimpers. “Why am I here? I don’t—I-I don’t know anything. I don’t know what happened. P-please. I don’t—my head hurts so bad. Please. _Please_.”

At that moment, Tony swears on his life that he would do anything for Peter if he was asked. He would make a suit so indestructible, the kid would hardly be able to walk. If Tony could give Peter his brain, he would.

Tony sets his arm around Peter’s shoulders, and for a while, they sit there in silence. Silence and awkward glances from the nurse who doesn’t know what to say. Tony presses his lips to Peter’s forehead, and the crying soon dies down.

“Pete, you’re so fucking strong,” Tony says quietly. “Not just physically. Cos’, _God_ , kid, everything you’ve been through… you’re only sixteen. And I don’t know a damn thing anymore. I admit it—I’m stumped. I _do_ know that it won’t be this bad forever. It hurts like hell now, I’m sure. I’d take it away if I could. But it’s gonna get easier. It _will_ get easier. And you’ve got the best support system on this planet. Me, your aunt, Happy, Rhodey, Pep, Vanessa, the water lady, and this guy.”

The nurse smiles.

“Okay, Pete?” Tony squeezes his shoulder. “It’s gonna get easier. You’re trying to push yourself, but it’s okay to take things at your own pace. Little do you know, you’ve already come so far. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Peter exhales shakily. “You don’t—y-you don’t know that, Mister Stark.”

“But I do, kiddo,” Tony says. “I know there’s more in that brain of yours than you’re letting off. And I know that you’re dying to get back to work so we can accidentally blow up a lab again.”

He thinks he hears Peter laugh, and that’s enough.

“I know that you know me,” Tony continues. “Ain’t that right?”

Peter nods. “Yeah.

“I bet you a hundred bucks that, one day, you’re probably gonna wish you didn’t.”

There are a few long seconds of silence, and Tony assumes that, after that, the conversation is over. He hopes that the worst is over, too.

But then Peter adds, in a steady tone, “make it a thousand instead, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Tony just smiles.


End file.
